The Lights, and: Carnival, and: These Things That Are Given, and: Neighbours

The Lights

Green is for go and red for going no-
where as my Da drums his fingers in
a rhythm on my head. Ma says
the lights and he takes up the wheel,
turning left and driving through a rainbow
coalition of well-heeled mannequins
in hyper-lit titillated go-go displays,
burnt homes under boarding and real
deal posters frayed upon bookies and bars,
in which I'll embark on a fifteen-year binge
to block out the hard eyes, this advice in the car
filled with sun, a honey-centred lozenge:
buck yourself up son, don't you know you are . . .
He breaks off, uncertain. The lights are orange.

Carnival

Black buffed leather-tongued brogues with oat-
meal socks and khaki y-fronts, pleated slacks,
pert navy and gold striped double-windsored tie
on a twill non-iron white hassle-free shirt,
stiff blazer, wool felt bowler, dead white
gloves and orange sash with silver tassels,
marching onward, left, right, elbows tight
to lambegs and banners, fifes, rows of waving
wives, marching onward, in formation, marching
on a Judas nation by the Queen's highway,
the town's High Street, roundabouts where forked
roads meet and never yield, marching to the field
of battle, field of peace, field patrolled by plain
clothed police; field of Jesus, field of hope, field
of Bush and fuck the Pope; marching onward into
heaven to scourge its halls of unwashed brethren;
then a blue bus home, content with your labours,
to watch Countdown and your favourite, Neighbours.

These Things That Are Given

But once did she say your mother
rules your roost and you must leave her,
or live forever in the nightmare
of your making. But once I left her.

Green smog-breath feazed the air.
I walked until enormous and dead
humps poked from their underwear

of hazel and vetch. The sky bled
and lightened, but a white tongue
of fog slurred over the pine rings.

And I was that mist clung to the brunt
of myself, shrouding the forge
in the sky. And there I slowly unfurled
an egg wrapped in gilt and orange.

Neighbours

The day fills with daycare centres.
Men bet in wards and download
scenes of Jordan. A big dealer
chews the face off a schoolgirl.

My neighbour clanks off
for a dark rum snifter and can
of sardines. The woman down
the street walks her daughter

to school, Berkeley streaming,
wishing she could work,
wishing she could be her daughter
when her hairdryer becomes

a microphone and her bed
of dolls turns to the Odyssey.
My neighbour sloothers back,
front door left ajar, as if waiting

for a visit, slicing cheddar
by streaming coupons with
a key-ring knife, talking
to a photograph of his wife.